


Hazar Dinari

by Enigma3000



Category: Padmaavat (2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Royalty, Slurs, Violence, a lot of blood, author is on crack. thoda sa, but like, its not the f word, ooc but sue me i want desi gays, please dont read if youre anti blood, slur tw, slur yes, theres blood, theres one slur, twisted fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:33:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma3000/pseuds/Enigma3000
Summary: He didn't know it was a member of Alauddin's court until it was too late.All Malik knew was that he's had slurs hurled at him his whole life, and this once, just this once, he fought back.But would his king see it that way?
Relationships: Alauddin Khilji/Malik Kafur
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Hazar Dinari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my pareshan gays :')](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+pareshan+gays+%3A%27%29).



> I'm two years late. Or thousands of years, depending on where you see this fic happening, but hey. I need my desi gays.

It happened all too quickly.

All he heard was a shout, a shout of his name (his first name, how dare they use his first name) followed almost immedieately by a disgusting slur that had been hurled at him his entire life. He had heard it a million times before, but it hurt just the same each time, sent him flying into a blind rage where nothing existed but the red in the corner of his vision, the itching in his fingers, and the intense need to hurt back.

There was a dagger strapped to his waist. There always was. It was a gift to him from his sultan, his lord, and Malik carried it around with him everywhere like he did the overwhelming gratitude he felt for that man every waking moment.

All it had taken was one step, one quick movement that he had barely even registered, and a sharp swipe of his arm.

“He’s lethal and precise, a scorpion in human skin,” someone had said about him once.

His first realisation, after the figure crumpled pathetically to the ground, was that the blood would be hard to wash away. 

His second realisation, after he saw the ground below stain with red, was that this would probably be hard to clean up.

His third and final realisation, was that this was a member of his master’s royal court, and dragging a blade across man’s throat probably hadn’t been one of his better ideas

Malik stood there, legs frozen in fear and a deep, sharp stab of regret (not triggered by morality, good god no) until he heard him approaching, no doubt having heard the commotion.

Alauddin. 

He stood, expression unreadable in the darkness. 

Radiant and beautiful and terrifyingly imposing as ever.

Malik watched, quietly, as the sultan considered the rather perturbing sight in front of him (not to him, of course, but to lesser men perhaps).

His minister, lying on the ground. His slave- no, he was more than that by now- covered in blood, blood that once flowed through the veins of a man he held in esteem. Probably not high. But esteem, nonetheless.   
  


Malik watched, with his heartbeat thudding in his ears like relentless drum beats, as Alauddin stepped closer. He put himself right next to the corpse and a mere arm’s length away from his slave. His expression was blank, concerningly so, and Malik steeled himself to face the royal’s wrath. 

He sucked in a breath, in what felt like worthless preparation for a hard punch, or more likely a jagged blade to his gut. His eyes closed of their own accord, but flew open immediately when he heard Alauddin’s voice. Rough, repressed, like he was swallowing the rage coursing through his veins, in favour of giving his cherished companion the benefit of the doubt.

“Why?”

Malik blinked. 

_ Why?  _

Was that all he was going to be asked?

After he had killed… someone (he had never bothered to learn anyone’s name, Alauddin’s was the only one he needed, the only one that erupted from his chest in the dead of the night) who clearly had been an asset to the fierce king’s army of strategists?

Perhaps Malik had caught him in a good mood.

He swallowed hard, taking a moment to wonder if he should just lie and get this over with. Now that he stood there, watching the steady flow of red into the grass below illuminated by the soft moonlight, he felt a keen pang of embarrassment. Alauddin had been called a great many things by a great many people, and had laughed valiantly, spitefully in the face of them all. He had absorbed their words, accepted them with a vengeance and turned them into a sort of shield. 

Words simply… didn’t hurt him.

So why should they hurt Malik?

But he eventually answered, anyway. Truthfully. Because he realised, midway through, that the shame did not lie with him. It lied with the bastard lying sprawled on the ground in a position so oddly contorted that he looked like a scarecrow knocked down by the wind. And then trampled by horses.

The image makes him laugh at the dead man, and he did.

It was what he deserved anyway.

“He-” Alauddin watched him take a deep breath.

“He called me a-” 

God, It was bloody disgusting. It was everything wrong with human language and it was a word that simply refused to come out. It seemed to have gotten stuck in his throat, effectively choking him.

Alauddin raised a gracefully groomed eyebrow, and Malik found a sudden strength in himself to continue.

He licked his lips, like he was about to spit acid and didn’t want the residue in his mouth

_ “...sodomite.” _

The word came out sharper and angrier than he had intended, and the sudden rise in the volume of his otherwise composed voice sent a rabbit scampering off into the bushes. Malik’s eyes trailed the little white creature until it was gone completely, shrouded by the thicket of greenery that had been planted by his own two hands, upon his lord’s request (command, was more like it). His eyes followed it into its hideaway, solely because he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. He couldn’t look at the vermin laying on the damp grass, couldn’t bring himself to face the shame, the anger- or worse, pity- in his sultan’s eyes.

He stared even long after it was gone, refusing to meet Alauddin’s gaze. 

The bushes seemed to have occupied his interest for seemingly no reason, Alauddin noticed. Which is why Malik missed the softening of Alauddin’s features, missed the near silent chuckle that escaped him (the kind only Malik ever heard),missed the way Alauddin tilted his head and gazed at this beautiful man in fond amusement.

And then he laughed, loud and harsh and indescribably pleased, effortlessly snapping Malik’s attention back to him. He looked confused, perhaps a little scared, but quite adorably so, Alauddin thought. There was a sort of innocent inquisitiveness in those eyes that he often lost himself in, and the king couldn’t help but lay a firm, war-roughened hand on this precious man’s cheek. He ran a thumb over Malik’s cheekbone, reveled in the way that simple action seems to put him at ease. Minutely, almost imperceptibly, but it was there.

The touch was oddly warm for this cold a night.

And then it was gone as soon as it came, when Alauddin retracted his hand and turned away from Malik. He got to his knees, ignored the pebble digging into his kneecap as he reached a hand out to what used to be his minister. His back was turned to Malik, effectively ensuring that the man in question didn’t catch the slick brush of Alauddin’s thumb over the blood pooling on the ground below. All Malik saw was (what seemed to be) the sultan paying respects to a departed friend. And it made his blood boil once more, but he supposed that it was several steps above being thrown in prison for killing him. There really was nothing to complain about.

That changed quickly when Alauddin turned around, stepped closer and closer to Malik with the sort of pride that set off palpitations in his heart. Alauddin stopped right in front of Malik, close enough for him to feel Alauddin’s leisured breath on his forehead, and tilted Malik’s head upwards towards his face with a gentle finger laid under his chin.

Malik’s breath caught in his throat.

The king’s index joined the space between the two, coming to rest on Malik’s forehead.   
  
And he dragged the blood-covered finger, in an action uncharacteristically tender, over Malik’s tense. forehead

Alauddin smiled, something halfway between a smirk and a grin that seemed to say “God, i’m proud” and “you’re a funny little man” in equal measure.

Malik smiled back, relief etched into his expression like prayers into stone.

The quick drying blood was cold against the warmth of his own forehead, and it sent electricity running through Malik’s every vein. This was the highest honour, this was the sultan acknowledging his slave as a warrior. A victor, emerging successful from battle. There was nothing condescending, nothing pitying about his actions. If anything, Alauddin seemed to be in awe.

Malik thought it too good to be true.

And that was even before the mad king was grabbing Malik’s face, in a grip so hard and vice like that it made Malik gasp.

Alauddin tilted his head, hummed with a suddenly ocean-deep voice laden with both admiration and desire. There was an edge to it, a sort of growl that rendered him weak in the knees, and all at once Alauddin’s piercing gaze was the only thing holding him upright.

“This...” he leaned in, closer and closer until Malik couldn’t stare at those lips anymore.

“... is why i keep you around.”

When their lips met, it wasn’t tender or soft or loving. It was ruthless and severe, firmness that was so untypical of two lovers but so, so typical of the emperor Malik had fallen in love with. The man enjoyed taking what he claimed as his, leaving nothing behind in return. But Malik didn’t care. It didn’t matter to him. All that did matter was that Alauddin thought of Malik as “his”.

It lasted longer than Malik had anticipated originally. But he didn’t complain. He would never complain about having the sultan’s strong hands on his neck, on his back, around his shoulders. He would never complain about the way his royal tunic felt like velvet under Malik’s fingers, the soft skin on his neck even more so. He would never, ever complain about being kissed like this under the moonlight, with the kind of passion and hunger that Alauddin had reserved for him, and him alone.

When they broke apart, Alauddin shook his head, as if gently chastising him for thinking that he could ever hurt the one person whose presence mattered most to him.

He gently pulled his kink close, letting his eyes flutter shut when their foreheads touched. Just like he had intended.

and when the moon shined above them, casting its soft rays on the two lovers,

It shined just a little brighter.


End file.
